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Soft Pretzel Love

Brains!!! I need brains!!!!

Okay, yeah, I really do need brains, but not for the reason you might think: being the friendless hermit I am, I had no idea a truly fantastic day of zombie fun was taking place tomorrow in this here mini-opolis, but when I passed the e-mail along my ol’ friend Mo sent me, I discovered I am, alas, the last to know…

And, according to one of my roomies, there’s a zombie bike parade happening at some point in the undead festivities.

With that in mind, I decided I should probably check out the damage to the baby, which occurred on one of my journeys home from Manyhunks: turning to look behind me as an ambulance nearly made me its next passenger, my front wheel was attacked by a particularly ornery piece of tree…

It was an angry piece of bark, more bark than bite, thankfully, but surly and sticklike and thus it stuck itself in between my wheel and brake, taunting me to try to ride now, sucka’! (Tree parts must get v. angry this time of year, all the wind and such making them ground up ground covering.)

Alas, the damage is minimal: a professional will be needed for a bit of a true, but for the most part, it’s just a wee bit wobbly … much like its owner.

What I did discover, however, is, while attempting to return the wheel to its fork, a crunchy dirt-like sound, which turned out to be … dirt. And lots of it.

Much like my many-thousand-dollar four-wheeled cup-holder’ed bike carrier, my modes of transport get fantastically filthy. I can remember nights, after hours spend riding in the grip of El Nino, my ex would come home, dry off, and immediately begin cleaning off his bike in preparation for another 10 hours, 100+ miles of the next days’ soggy messenger hell.

And look! On the couch! Who’s that?Well, that’s me, also having ridden 10 hours sopping wet, flopped on the couch watching the Simpsons. Of course, I also had a fantastic bike mechanic at the time who was more than patient when my shit would get all fucked up due to my utter lack of care for the intricate mechanics that made the gears shift when I told them to, wheels turn and brakes stop.

And it’s not like I haven’t tried to make new bike boy friends: I chased the hottie on the LeMond for blocks, but, more than likely the grit populating every turning part slowed me down enough for him to escape…

From now on I resort to second grade tactics, and instead of trying to impress them with my outrageously muscled calves and cycling skills, I’m just going to knock them down and kiss them…